PlanetFargo

PlanetFargo: Oblivious

This week, Fargo brings his unique skills to bear in the epic role-playing world of Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion.

Castle Bruma squatted low and sturdy, dusted by months of snow filling the crevices between its enormous grey stones. A pair of guards flanked the great wooden gates, shivering in their light armor against the stinging winds one finds so high in the Jerall mountains. But just beyond, peering through rippling sheets of leaded glass steamed from the warmth within, two men sat in elaborate silk garments beside a roaring fire.

The elder of the two men, Sir Grosny, had lost the majority of his graying hair. He tapped one set of wide fingers on the heavy oak table impatiently while his other broad hand sat splayed across his significant gut. Sir Grosny, his meager deeds on the battlefield forgotten decades before, scowled with an oversized lower lip. "He's late," he grunted.

Despite his youth, Sir Grosny's companion displayed far more patience. The monk, sitting on the other side of the table in simple brown robes, was known to the townspeople as Allestair. The hint of a scar across his cheek told tales of another life, but so far as his countrymen knew he was but a humble holy man. Few knew of his occasional errands for the Emperor. "He will be here," Allestair said for the fifth time that hour. "The Emperor requested him specifically. His talents are... unique."

Sir Grosny's lips curled to retort when a commotion broke out in the castle courtyard below. A dog barked, but the sound was immediately followed by a wet slap and a loud yelp. Within moments, a lithe but strong warrior burst in through the reinforced door of the castle receiving room, trailed by wisps of snow and bitterly cold wind. The warrior wore light mithril armor that glittered in the firelight, covering every inch of his chiseled figure but for his hands. Nodding to the men by the window, he removed his helmet to reveal a well-weathered yet intense face, then slammed the door behind him.

"Sir Fargo!" beamed the monk Allestair, rising to his feet. "You're just in time. We are so pleased that you responded to the Emperor's summons. Allow me to express his gratitude in advance."

The young warrior minced no words. "You have work?" he grunted. "Work requiring my... special skills?"

Sir Grosny shifted in his seat and broke into the conversation. "And just what skills are those?" he all but spat. "I've heard the stories, but I want to hear about it from you own lips, Sir." The formal title was sneered derisively.

Sir Fargo pulled a heavy oaken chair across the floor, then lowered himself into it, his gaze never leaving the old man. Men in his line of work were used to derision and misunderstanding, and his heart had hardened to such questions long ago. Sir Fargo took a deep breath and spoke.

"I punch animals," the young knight said. "I punch them. I punch them in the face. That's what I do." He leaned back, the wood creaking. "I'm an animal puncher."

The young Monk tried to regain control of the conversation. "Yes, yes!" he said, still smiling amidst the tension. "People speak highly of your wor-"

"I started with dogs and sheep," Fargo continued, as though the Monk hadn't spoken. "Then I moved on to hone my skills in the wild. Punching deer. Then wolves."

Sir Grosny snorted, but by now his fear had been replaced by unease.

"One time I was attacked by a bear," Sir Fargo told them.

"Did you... punch it?" Sir Grosny asked, afraid of the answer.

"No," said Sir Fargo. "I waited until he reared up, six feet high, his crinkled face a mask of fur and teeth and spittle. And then I hauled back and... slapped him."

"You slapped a bear!?" Allestair blurted.

"I slapped him in the face. Crosswise. Just gave him a good solid smack. Turned his head. Sent his eyes a whirling. Then he looked back at me, this bear. He looked at me as if to say, 'You did NOT just SLAP me,' and I was like, 'Yes, yes I did bear. Yes I did.' And then, after we'd established the nature of our relationship, then -- and only then -- did I start punching the bear. Oftentimes in the face, although before I was done there was not a body part of that bear that had gone unpunched, and that is not a boast."

Silence followed, broken only by Sir Grosny loudly swallowing, a bead of sweat easing its way down his temple.